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| - Neigh. I'm a horse. I like salt. Love it in fact. I have a salt lick in my pen, a big block of salt that I lick regularly. So I know salt. I like salt. In fact, I love it. My experience last night at O'Finn's Irish Temper however, had me dipping my head in the water trough again and again. Why you may ask? Well, in all my years, horse years, I have never had food as salty as that which I had the pleasure of overpaying for as I did at O'Finns. Every entree ordered by everyone at the table, horse or human, was practically inedible due to the copious amount of salt ladled onto every dish.
After a long day trotting around the track at Woodbine with midgets sitting on my back and whipping my bum, myself and my non-equine friends felt like something sinful. A platter of nachos was ordered by the table as a starter. Nobody expected a Dr. Oz veggie platter. We ordered nachos, we knew what we were getting into. A hot, cheesy, fatty, salty mess. And we were looking forward to the glutinous treat. However, what we received was nothing short of cardiac arrest inducing saltiness. The salt was caked on every tortilla chip, like freshly fallen snow on the roof of your car. Inedible would be an understatement. Have you ever driven up an on ramp on a cold January morning and seen the piles of road salt the plows leave behind to stop the black ice from forming? That is what the nachos looked like. I've seen less salt caked onto a 1996 Toyota Tercel after a winters worth of driving on the GTA highways.
Now, being the Canadian thoroughbred horse I am, my polite nature often has me finishing something with a smile whether I like it or not. But this blood pressure bomb was beyond what my Canuck manners could withstand, and I grudgingly told the waitress we could not eat this travesty. Apologetic to the point of embarrassment, I let her know that it was not good. She took it away. A short while later the real magic happened. The little twerp of a manager made his way over to our table. His passive aggressive tone was one that I have never experienced in my 40 years of dining out (those are horse years too, so well over 100 years for you two-legged humans). He jumped right to a defensive stance as if he had grown and ground the corn for the nacho chips himself, on a hectare of rocky soil, high atop a cliff on a remote hillside in Machu Picchu. It was comical. Someone has hurt this man before. Not sure who, but normal adults don't act this way out of the gate unless someone has stomped on their heart, or face, in the past. He sent out another plate of nachos (basically telling us he was doing us a favour) citing "human error" as the culprit. The second platter was saltier than the first.
Had someone inadvertently knocked over a bag of salt onto these in the food prep area? Had the Campbell's company mistaken O'Finn's kitchen for its soup factory and dumped a years worth of soup salt onto our nachos? Had an ancient ocean tributary dried up, and its savoury remains coalesced in a vortex of white salty dust over the top of my melted Monterrey Jack cheese they found in a No Frills parking lot? I don't know, but again, just an awful, disgusting mess was served to us, one that nobody but a person devoid of taste buds could consume. After one bite, I could feel the salt oozing out from the sweat of my armpits.
And the main courses that followed were no better. It was like they took the Dead Sea in Israel, extracted all the water from it, and used what was left in every dish of food they served. And I think I know what they did with the water they extracted, it went into the watered down pints they passed off as beer.
So, if you find yourself in Oakville and are going into anaphylactic shock and need something salty to raise your blood pressure immediately, stop into O'Finns. If you are a lady and feel like being leered at by fat 32 year old shinny hockey players with no neck looking to pick a fight and hoping for a drunk cougar to bag for the night, drop into O'Finns. If you are tone deaf and don't mind the off key singing by the one man band with the drum machine in the Old Navy t-shirt, make a beeline into O'Finns. You won't be disappointed.
There are many places a stones throw from this place in Oakville that will happily gouge you out of your hard earned pay. Go there instead.
I'd sooner bathe in broken glass than patronize this establishment again. And to the owners, I'd have your manager take a few courses in a George Brown hospitality program night school class. He has the personality and charisma of a wet tube sock with a hole in it. I've met cigarillo sellers at cockfights that have more charm and business acumen than this guy.
I'm sorry to have rambled, but it was really that unpleasant of an experience. Luckily the company I was with was good, and we all took the experience, pardon the pun, with a grain of salt. And I must have been pretty irked to write this, because do you know how hard it is to type with hooves?
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